


Pasodoble

by Robin_Mask



Category: Pet Shop of Horrors
Genre: Arguing, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Separations, Swearing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Mask/pseuds/Robin_Mask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jill knew what the dance meant. She knew what power the music held, how the spell it weaved could capture the strongest of souls, and she didn't fear "the Matador", but what she did fear was the dance that Leon and D danced . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# Pasodoble

 

“You – you ruined it! You r _uined_ it!”

 

“Damn it, Count!” Leon all but screamed, “If you didn’t wear stupid dresses all the time then this wouldn’t even have happened! Would it kill you to wear a pair of pants for once? I have a whole closet full of clothes you could wear! It’s not my fault you think looking like a girl is the height of fashion!”

 

Jill sipped carefully from her teacup.

 

It wasn’t her place to get involved in childish squabbles and, considering she spent most of her day resolving conflict in the line of duty, she had no intentions of doing so on her day off. Instead she allowed her hands to gently brush through the fur of the European badger beside her, finding it a somewhat relaxing and reassuring gesture as she let the heady aroma of the jasmine tea take over her.

 

D, meanwhile, was bent almost in two in a rather inelegant way, leaning so far into Leon’s personal space that should he lean in but an inch more they would have been touching. If she hadn’t known Leon to be such a womaniser she may have put down this almost violent display to being sexual tension. It wasn’t often that D lost his temper . . . in fact he only ever seemed to lose it around Leon, almost as if the older blond was a catalyst for his livid temper. Occasionally he would take on a quiet distemper, glaring dangerously or scowling like a petulant child, but more often than not their arguments would cumulate into an all out shouting match, with either bruises or hurt feelings resulting on either side. It was – in a strange way – always nice to see the count let go completely, but it was also somewhat terrifying to see him so out of control when it went so against his natural state of being.

 

“For the last time, Detective, thisis _not_ a dress!”

 

The count grabbed at the collar of his cheongsam and pointed at it with his other – rather manicured – hand. That was something else that Jill had noticed over time, that the very first time Leon had met the count his fingernails had been rather short, but over time he had appeared to have grown them out like claws. The manicured look suited him, but she was somewhat worried that they would cut the fine silk material. She had seen what they had done to human flesh . . . Leon’s chest would probably be scarred for the remainder of his life. 

“This is a cheongsam! _Cheongsam_! One that _you_ have just thoughtlessly ruined!”

 

“Ruined! If anything I’ve improved it! No real man wears something unless it’s got at least one stain or a rip; it’s like the way of life . . . and unless there’s a pair of pants under that dress then it’s a dress, not a whatever you called it!”

 

“Oh, yes, I’m _sure_ that’s the way things work in that sty _you_ live in, but in the real world of _cultured_ and _mature_ human beings –”

 

“What is that supposed to mean? You calling me a _pig_?”

 

“Good heavens no! That would be an insult to all pigs! _You_ are nothing more than an uncouth barbarian! Even if you _do_ live in a sty, _act_ like a beast, and _smell_ like a pig.”

 

A low sigh escaped her lips as she observed the scene before her . . . Leon was dressed as he usually was on his days off, with a T-shirt so old that he probably had forgotten when he last worn it, hair tied back into a messy ponytail, and jeans so stained and worn that it wouldn’t be long until they were see-through or nothing more than a pile of unravelled thread.

 

D, on the other hand, looked so elegant and beautiful, almost as if every single aspect of his appearance was perfectly planned and executed down to the last detail. His hair was silky smooth, straight and shoulder-length, with a slight side parting so that a few locks hid his eye from view, obscuring the fact that he had a rather unique case of heterochromia. His cheongsam was a deep and vivid violet colour, so rich and dark that it made his pale skin seem almost like marble, and along the edge ran an intricate and detailed pattern that gave it a rather oriental feel. The only fault with the ensemble was the large rip down the right sleeve . . . where Leon, in his temper, had slammed it in the door upon entering. His argument was that the count shouldn’t have stood so close to the door, nor worn such long and girlish clothes, and the count of course was not at all amused with the accident or being blamed.

 

She could see Leon starting to seethe, his face bright red and dark crimson, and his hands were clenched into tight fists, any second now he would explode into anger, he would say something that he couldn’t take back or do something that he would regret, and now that Chris was gone . . . Leon didn’t really have much of a reason to hold back, did he? There was that strange FBI agent snooping around and a new serial killer on the loose . . . it was a stressful time for all.

 

When Leon took a step forward, towards the count, Jill shot out her hand and yanked him down onto the sofa next to her. The goat-like creature jumped out of Leon’s way, growling (or was it baaing?) at him as it did so, and the look that the young detective gave it in return was rather venomous. Sometimes Jill could almost believe that the animal knew what Leon felt about it and said about it, because it was almost personal . . . in an eerie way she felt like the animals in the shop had a higher level of intelligence than they should, and she knew from experience that somehow all roads led to Count D. Leon was right that the count was suspicious, but he was dealing with him in the completely wrong way . . . he would one day regret pushing D.

 

“I’m sorry, Count,” Jill said, blocking Leon from getting up again as he tried to stand. “It’s been a stressful few days lately. We’ve been investigating a serial killer; we were finally getting somewhere, too, until this agent shows up . . .”

 

“Yeah! Now all our efforts have been turned onto some ‘top secret’ mission,” Leon said, suddenly calming down quite considerably, “but I’m not supposed to say anything, you know?”

 

“That _would_ be the definition of ‘secret’, Detective,” D snapped.

 

Jill was forced to give a ‘look’ to the count as he said that.

 

The problem with those two men was that they knew _exactly_ what to say to set the other man off. The second those sarcastic words had escaped the count’s mouth did the detective open his mouth to make a loud noise, his body lurching forward in his chair, and it took all of Jill’s strength just to pull him back and keep him firm in his seat. Leon was making little groaning noises of frustration, the only resulting action of which was a sharp smack to his head by his female counterpart.

 

“Well,” Leon mumbled, “I _was_ going to tell you what the agent wanted, but I think I’ll wait now. It’ll serve you right. I got put on this task pretty exclusively, but to be honest we have more important things to deal with . . . I mean I have a duty to the people, right? It’s why I joined the force. If the job that stupid agent put me on is a waste of time . . . Jill’s still on the case, thought I’d help out, you know?”

 

“We’re very sorry to bother you, Count,” Jill said softly. “It’s just I thought you might be able to give us some leads. The killer we’re dealing with has been unfortunately nicknamed by the press as ‘the Matador’, you may have heard of him . . .”

 

“Ha! That guy doesn’t even own a cell, doubt he’s up to date with the news.”

 

That was actually quite true . . .

 

 

He was a mystery, plain and simple. It was amazing how one letter could mean so many things. It was just a letter, nothing more, and yet it symbolised so much . . . it represented someone so complex, so enriched with mystery and ambiguity, that Jill was amazed that something so simple – so basic – could possibly be his name. It was a true paradox. It was the contradiction that defined D, how one man could be such an enigma and yet present to the world such a straightforward façade . . . 

 

In another paradoxical way Jill adored D’s company. It was something that Leon could never understand, because as detectives their very instincts told them to search for clues and look beneath the underneath, to suspect everyone and investigate everywhere, and – most of all – their instincts told them never to stop searching until they had answers. Answers were everything. That was no doubt why Leon disliked D so much; it was nothing personal, it was simply that he was such a mystery, and a mystery that Leon couldn’t _solve_. Jill had to wonder what Leon would do if he ever uncovered the truth. Would he turn away, no longer enticed by the riddle that was D? Would he be further drawn to the man, sharing in some deep and dark secret? Perhaps it depended on Leon’s motives . . . was he drawn to the mystery or drawn to D himself? Why _did_ he want answers to the questions? Would he have been so relentless for any other ‘suspect’?

 

Jill was different to Leon, not just for the obvious reasons . . . maybe it was women’s intuition, but there was just something about D that made her feel safe and secure, that made her feel like every time she visited his shop that she had somehow came home, and – deep inside herself – she felt a nagging feeling that it would be _wrong_ to question those feelings. It would be wrong to try and solve D. It was best to just accept the man for who he was, to learn to love the questions rather than to frustrate oneself searching for answers, to bask in the mystery . . .

 

She knew that to try and ‘solve’ D would be to lose him.

 

It was hard to say why. She had her theories of course, but nothing really stuck in her head as ‘plausible’, it was just a feeling she had . . . like waking from a dream, where the more one tried so hard to remember the cause of such happiness the more one forgot about it entirely. D represented a world so fragile, so ethereal, and so _transient_. He was like a flimsy bubble, blown into the air, and the slightest touch would cause him to disappear as if he had never existed at all, and all one could do was to wait, to watch, to appreciate the fleeting moment of beauty whilst it lasted, knowing that it could never be pinned down and captured.

 

That was why she never questioned D too deeply. She never investigated too far into his past, never gave him the cold shoulder, never criticised his actions . . . his very existence would be called into question if she did, and – frankly – she didn’t want to lose him just yet. The life of a detective was so difficult . . . fraught with death and destruction around every corner . . . D represented a kind of fresh start, a second chance . . . D offered a world free from pain. He offered the ‘dreams’ he promised.

 

The shop was a form of sanctuary. It was safe in those four walls, locked away from the outside world . . . always the scent of incense pervaded the air, the taste of sweets and sugary treats lingered on one’s tongue, and always one felt the soft touch of one of the animals, reassuring them that they were not alone. Jill always felt as if she could get lost in the sounds of the animals, of the soft rustling of D’s cheongsam as he swept his way through the shop floor, and what made it perfect was that Jill felt herself transported . . . for one brief moment in time she could forget about killers and monsters and muggers, she could pretend that there was only these four walls and the friendly company of the count. It was an escape, pure and simple . . .

 

The only thing that ruined it was:

 

“You know, I bet that bastard sold some guy a pet that caused all this!”

 

“How dare you! You have some nerve, Detective, to accuse me of such a thing! First you ruin my clothing, then you eat my finely baked goods like a pig in a pen, and _now_ you are insulting my reputation as a professional businessman! Do I look like the sort of man who would sell a dangerous animal to the unsuspecting public?”

 

“Yes, you freaking do! I mean first there were those rabbits, then that lizard thing, and that stupid goat is a hazard in and of itself, and then there was that teddy bear thing that was probably cursed by your clone of a grandfather –”

 

“Count D!” Jill interrupted loudly, grabbing an iced bun from the table and shoving it hard into her partner’s mouth. “We haven’t come across anything like this before, we think the killer might be taking inspiration from . . . well . . . a rather _unusual_ place. It might seem strange that we should come to you, especially as – contrary to Leon’s belief – there are no animals involved, but we couldn’t think of anyone with a better knowledge or expertise concerning animals and . . . although we hate to admit it . . . the culprit is basing his kills off some rather animal-related practises.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

The count gave Jill a rather hard look. His eyes narrowed rather dangerously, but beneath them lay a rather beautiful smile that contradicted the coldness in his eyes, and as he watched her she noticed how he stood at such an angle that Leon was always in his vision. She noticed how he would smirk when Leon rose to his bait, how his right eye would twitch and his eyebrows would furrow when the detective annoyed him, and she noticed how almost everything he did – no matter how indirect or seemingly innocent – seemed forever aimed at getting a reaction from Leon.

 

It didn’t matter that it was Jill addressing him, or that this was a serious matter, D’s attention still seemed aimed entirely upon the detective opposite his dining table. It always made her feel like a third wheel. Chris had the benefit of playing with the animals when he had been here, but Jill didn’t have that option . . . instead she had to content herself by watching the two men try to outdo one another.

 

Count D eventually gave a soft sigh and looked across the room to where a large feline lay against a doorframe, he seemed to give a soft nod of his head and his lips pursed tightly into a tense smile, and – somehow – the animal seemed to understand the unsaid command and left the room. The count then walked with long, confident strides to the couch opposite Leon and Jill, sitting with such grace and poise that his every movement seemed choreographed and as fluid as a dance, each gentle movement so expressive and emotive that his very personality shone through in each and every gesture. His long, manicured fingers took up a porcelain teacup and brought them up to his lips . . . Jill wasn’t blind to the slight blush on Leon’s cheeks. The damned detective admitted to being attracted to D when they first met, he had practically drooled over D’s identical sister, and he was so _jealous_ when D finally found a boyfriend. She hoped their fighting wouldn’t end as explosively as it began, because it would truly be ugly to see.

 

“Please,” D said in a rather legato voice, “do go on.”

 

“Well, the killer’s _modus operandi_ is pretty unique as far as anything we’ve ever come across before. It wasn’t until the fifth victim that we finally managed to get a picture of just _how_ he works. It seems that this guy is picking off strong men and women, the kind who can fight back, and judging from the autopsy reports he’s fighting against them. We think there’s a group, because crime-scene suggests a circle of men and/or women around the suspect and victim as they fight, and – once the victim has been beaten bloody – the suspect then pierces their heart with a knife to finish them off. It seemed so sick and surreal. This guy and his pals are literally making murder into a game, they fight the victim until they can’t fight any more and then kill them, they can’t even run as they’re surrounded . . .

 

“One of our guys has family in Spain, he mentioned coming out from the crime-scene that this was like a bull-fight, that this guy was like a matador. You can guess what the press around at the time made of _that_. The chief has flipped his lid when he caught a wind of the nickname, says the very last thing we needed was to give the guy further publicity and status. The idea is if we can catch the ringleader we can catch the rest pretty easily, but we just can’t work out the psychology or his motives! So, can you help us? We aren’t exactly experts on bullfights here, this _is_ New York . . .”

 

Count D took a long sip of his tea and then gently placed the cup down upon the table. His lips glistened for a brief moment, the moisture of the tea lingering on their plump and colourful surface, and from behind him Q-chan fluttered about and made some rather strange titters that made the creature sound like it was either annoyed or in pain. Jill had to wonder if the animal could communicate with D in some way, sometimes it seemed oddly aware of its surroundings and oddly emotive in a rather . . . _human_ way.

 

“Well,” D began, his voice rather slow and melodious, as if he was thinking through every word before he spoke, “I can say one thing for certain. You likely have more victims than you believe . . . that or some of your ‘victims’ are actually a part of your culprit’s group of collaborators.”

 

“What? How the hell did you work that out?” Leon snapped.

 

Jill turned to her partner and glared at him in warning. She hated the way that Leon insisted on leaning forward into the count’s personal space; his left arm cupped his teacup in a rather inelegant manner as he swirled the contents around, the right he was using to lean upon as he hunched his back and sent death-glares towards the elegant Chinese-man. He looked to be on the verge of saying something, perhaps delivering a threat, but he seemed to hold his tongue regardless.

 

In return the count moved backwards, his back rigid and straight in excellent posture, and he even lifted his head so that his gaze was slightly upward. He looked so regal and elegant, and the more Leon invaded his personal space the more he moved away from him, so that it was almost as if the two were engaged in a dance of sorts. The count took the opportunity to drink from his cup again, lifting it with both hands and taking long and heavy sips. He closed his eyes as he drank, effectively cutting off all communication with Leon before it had even began, and somehow he seemed to exude a slightly awkward air or embarrassment or discomfort, and the longer that the silence between them went on the more Leon seemed to resent it, glaring more and more until he would soon explode.

 

“Well, this culprit is working in a part of a group, is he not? If he truly were imitating the barbaric acts of the bullfight, then those surrounding the culprit and the suspect would act as the horses and their riders that surround the bull and the matador during their fight. The idea is that they protect the crowds from the bull and intervene should the need arise, but the bull often disembowels and kills the poor horses in the process. I would imagine a group of men surrounding a victim, terrified and being forced to fight for their life, would sustain a great deal of damage as the victim attempted to escape or run from their predicament.”

 

There was an eerie silence from both Jill and Leon as they absorbed the count’s words. The truth of the matter was that there _were_ other causalities that didn’t fit the _modus operandi_ , they also didn’t fit the victimology at all, they had – in fact – come up with similar theories themselves, but nothing they could theorise fitted the evidence at hand. D’s words made sense. It was a frightening thought, but it truly seemed their killer was living up to his name, but why he would base his crimes off something so _surreal_ was anyone’s guess.

 

D actually displayed a rare iota of emotion as he spoke, more for the thought of the poor animals who suffered in such a way on a regular basis than for the humans who had lost their lives in such a manner. His upper lip curled into a form of pout, his eyes scrunched up into an almost ugly look, and he radiated a kind of contempt as his body stiffened considerably and firmly. It was well known that the count had travelled considerably, and so perhaps he had encountered such violence personally, but regardless of where he had learned about such acts it was clear they sickened him to his core. It was only made more poignant by Leon’s equal, yet opposite, reaction. The young detective winced considerably at the prospect of more human victims, but the idea of the animal violence from which such a crime was inspired seemed to be nothing more than an abstract or indifferent idea to him.

 

The two men were complete opposites. Count D only cared about the animals he raised and nurtured, evidenced by the fact he seemed so uncompassionate about the young girl’s death on the aeroplane, or how he – at first – seemed so disgruntled by Chris’ appearance. Jill knew he cared to some degree, of course, after all if he didn’t love Leon then why would he have expressed such horror when he first met Chris, assuming that Leon had a son and thus a committed relationship, and why would he form such strong attachments to some of his clients? Leon, on the other hand, seemed to care only about the humans in his life, but – like D – he had a soft spot for the ‘other side’, even going so far as to rush T-chan to the veterinary hospital at the risk of slowing down his investigation. Two men . . . so similar, and yet so different . . .

 

Leon let out a kind of growl and fell back into his seat, throwing an arm around the back so that he inadvertently nudged Jill quite hard and made her frown at him. His legs were spread rather inelegantly and indecently wide, his head thrown back to stare at the ceiling in a rather sleepy manner, and – for the first time – Jill swore she caught a subtle scent of alcohol. She was grateful that she couldn’t smell perfume on him, but – in recent years – Leon seemed to strike out with women more and more, and somehow he also seemed less and less interested in meeting them.

 

“It is a highly dangerous ‘sport’,” D continued, spitting venom on the word ‘sport’. “The red cape is often attributed to the misconception that red attracts the bull’s attention, or antagonises it, when in reality it is red merely to hide the blood . . . both that of the bull _and_ of the matador. The matador engages in a _dance_ with the bull, the closer he is the more of a risk there is, and the more skilled he is perceived to be.

 

“The matador leads the bull into a useless chase, taking control of the dance, and his partner eventually is so tired out that the music can do nought but end. The dance stops. The bull is stabbed viciously through his heart, leaving him to bleed out on the stadium floor for the enjoyment of the spectating masses. Have you ever lost a great deal of blood, Detective? Do you know what it feels like to have your very life essence drained out of you? It is not a very pleasant death at all, and it is made only worse by the humiliation that follows, knowing that all those who are watching you could easily help and yet will not. If that does not bother you, Detective, I implore you to think about the men who are gored to death or injured brutally in the process, after all . . . no sport is without risks to the sportsman.”

 

“Yeah, I hear chess is real deadly,” Leon spat, rolling his eyes.

 

“If played correctly,” D quipped, eyeing Leon carefully to see if the detective would understand the use of metaphor. “Chess, unlike the bullfights we are discussing, sadly relies more on wit and intelligence, that is . . . if one wants to outmanoeuvre their opponent. Patience is also key, I believe. I can see why – with those qualities in mind – it would be a sport you would inherently dislike.”

 

The rather sly and pleased smile to grace D’s lips made Jill smile in return. She noted well that when D gracefully unfolded his legs and turned to his left side, taking a long sip of tea in a way that would make a model green with envy, how Leon would follow him with his eyes and lean in quite dramatically. It was as if – with his own brand of sarcasm – that D was waving his own red cape, luring Leon into a dance of his own. If D pulled then Leon would push, and when D pushed then Leon pulled. It was fascinating to watch, it was like a dance in motion . . .

 

“It may surprise you, Detective,” D continued, carrying on before Leon interrupted with inane insults, “to know that it isn’t _all_ bad for the bull. If they deem him to have fought exceptionally they will sometimes spare his life, leading him back into pastures where he will become a stud, spending the rest of his life mating with the females. I am sure that would be a heaven for you, would it not? You have fought well many times in the past, you seem to enjoy the act of mating, and frankly the barbaric acts of a bullfight – not unlike the Roman coliseums – seem to suit you much more than an intellectual game of _chess_. It is a shame you are not a bull.”

 

Jill knew what was coming and so distracted herself by trying to think of the name of that particular dance, the one that reminded her so much of D and Leon . . . it was based off the bullfights, wasn’t it? She was sure that the very dance and music was inspired by the traditional bullfights, something to do with the way one person lead and the other was lost in following the first’s movements, almost entranced by the magic of the music, by the heat of the fight . . .

 

“What the hell? Are you calling me a _bull_ now?”

 

 _Pasodoble_! That was it! It somehow seemed rather poignant, much more apt than a tango or a waltz. It was the dance these two danced on a daily basis, with one leading and one being led, each one oblivious to the forces that pulled them together, to the way that – even as separate and distinct entities – how they moved as one, how they depended upon on another . . .

 

“Of course not, my dear detective,” D said smoothly, “I could never compare you to just _one_ animal. You do, after all, eat like a pig, talk like a parrot, and the intelligence of an amoeba . . . if life were a case of ‘survival of the fittest’ then I am surprised that you are sitting here before me. How many times have you visited the hospital since I have known you? One? Three? _Five_?”

 

Then again it was a rather _depressing_ metaphor. The dance itself may have the passion that only the tango could rival, but it was based on the bullfight, and for Leon to be lead like that . . . he was merely dancing the dance of Death, being led into his own destruction, the idea of ‘catching’ the cape only an illusion . . .

 

“Yeah? Well screw you, Princess! I may be in the hospital a lot, but at least I don’t flip out over a broken nail! Oh, and just to let you know, you _may_ want to get those things looked at, you have claws like a cat! I still have scars to prove that! You call me an animal; well you’re just a tiger with those claws! No! You’re a pussycat, a cute little pussycat that can only hiss and claw at things it doesn’t like! Ha, pretty apt with all _your_ temper tantrums!”

 

“Oh, my dear detective! Did you just refer to me as ‘cute’?”

 

“Fuck you! Damn it, this is why no one likes you, D! You heard all that and all you get from it is ‘oh, D is so dreamy’, well I would rather die before I give some criminal like you a compliment, and another thing -!”

 

The thing was . . . Leon was already caught. The dance had claimed another victim.

 

Jill stood abruptly and took a sharp hold of Leon’s collar.

 

Leon at once began to choke and splutter loudly as she pulled him by the scruff of his neck out of his chair, whilst he was being dragged from his seat he coughed and spluttered so loudly that she was worried she may have been suffocating him. It was surprising how easy the larger man was to drag, especially when he was twice her weight and height, but with him taken by surprise – and fighting back ineffectually – she found him easy to move and easy to drag away.

 

Even as she pulled him away to the doorway he still kept trying to hurl abuse towards the Count, and as they made their way outside the count merely watched on with an indifferent – yet somewhat pleased – expression. He stood tall. His eyes never left Leon’s half-hunched form as his partner pulled him away, and the way he looked at Leon was so strange . . . so passionate. It was a hungry look that may have meant so many things; he perhaps felt a sadistic need to goad Leon further for a response he craved, or perhaps he felt a lust for him that was caused by the obvious sexual tension between the pair, or maybe he felt nothing more than a curiosity that he sought to appease by learning more about Leon and his reactions. His half-narrowed eyes were so expressive, yet they expressed something so abstract that Jill couldn’t quite place the emotions behind it, and all the while the smell of incense filled the air and mystified her senses. It was a surreal experience, but such mysteries were commonplace with D.

 

Jill let go of Leon and flung open the doors to the shop. A sudden burst of fresh air flooded the shop floor and took away some of the incense’s sharpness, it chilled her to the bone and brought about an awareness that she had not been conscious of having lost, and as she turned to apologise to the count she felt as if she were looking upon the scenery of a dream. The pet shop was real, it was there before her, and yet it seemed somehow rather ethereal and transient, as if it might vanish at any second, and when she looked into those eyes of the count . . .

 

Despair.  

 

That was what ‘D’ stood for, wasn’t it? That was what she saw in those dark orbs, those eyes that forever seemed to be hiding something, always trying to express one emotion when clearly hiding another, and it was only now that she saw the pain in his features. His smiles were empty and when he took joy in another’s pain it seemed as if it was only to feed his own melancholy, to feel better about himself. How long would he continue to dance his dance with Leon? There would surely come a time when the dance would end and one or both of them would have to admit their feelings, but until then would D continue to exist alone?

 

Would he allow that despair to eat away at him until there was nothing left but an emotionless, indifferent shell of what he was? She had seen the photograph of D’s grandfather, she had seen the rather unemotional expression he wore, and – most of all – she remembered how D had been before he began his friendship with Leon . . . she didn’t wish for him to go back to being that way. She didn’t want D to lose his humanity merely because he feared being human.

 

“Sorry, Count,” Jill said, taking a step up that tall staircase. “I’ll send Leon with some pastries later to apologise. If I thought he would act like this I would have left him back at the precinct . . . it was my mistake for thinking he could act like a grown-up for ten minutes out of his day.”

 

“Oh, that is quite alright, Miss Jill.”

 

Count D sauntered slowly over to where Leon stood, poised at the bottom step ready to follow Jill upwards towards the Chinatown streets. There was a slight sway to his hips as he moved, his cheongsam – despite its new imperfection – stood out brightly against the warm tones of the shop’s décor, and as he moved a subtle scent of tea and incense moved with him. His eyes became half-lidded; his expression soft and serene, and there was a grace about him that seemed to express a rather calm passion, a sense of pure love and adoration.

 

He came up to Leon and carefully placed a well-manicured hand upon the detective’s chest, his long fingers resting slightly on the blond’s mussed collar and touching just slightly the tanned white skin beneath. He stood on his toes ever so slightly, just enough so that he could look up into Leon’s eyes whilst entering his ‘personal bubble’, and a subtle – yet obvious – blush crept along Leon’s face so that it was clear this sudden contact made him uncomfortable. Jill felt rather uncomfortable watching, almost like she was witnessing a private moment between a couple, but scenes like this were so common between the pair as they danced between fighting and camaraderie, and so she took a step upwards to try and give them – at the very least – the illusion of distance. The two of them had the most functional dysfunctional relationship she had ever known.

 

“Do you remember what I told you about the mating habits of animals, Leon?” D said in a voice so soft and smooth that Jill could barely recognise it as being the Count’s, and she certainly couldn’t believe it was directed towards Leon. “It is something to remember. Like the mate of the Black Widow . . . sometimes, if we value our lives, we must learn to let go . . . ‘obsession’ can only lead to death.”

 

Leon’s eyebrow twitched a little, his lips moved wildly as if desperately trying to say something, but the three of them knew that there was very little that could be said regarding the situation. D seemed to adore mystery and metaphor, confusing those he spoke to with double meanings and obtuse expressions, and Leon – with his ever literal mind – never seemed to catch on to the little hints, subtle words, or far too many coincidences that were not at all a ‘coincidence’. Jill was beginning to suspect that things were somehow coming to an end, and that – perhaps – D even knew about the investigation against him, but regardless D was ever the mystery.

 

“It doesn’t matter, my dear detective,” D said, “whether we are fighting the bull in the bullfight or dancing the dance of the _Pasodoble,_ eventually all things must come to an end. That is the only thing in life we can be certain of.”

 

“Yeah, sure . . .”

 

Leon’s blush was obvious, but so too was his frustration with the count. He clearly felt irritated that the Chinese man was playing with him, taunting him with obscure meanings and threats, but he did not understand the intent behind those words well enough to call him out on them. Instead of arguing he took to glaring menacingly at the floor and hunched his shoulders over, with hands in pockets he began to quickly follow Jill up the staircase.

 

“Oh, and Detective?” D called out, causing Leon to stop midway. “Good luck with that ‘ _secret_ ’ mission of yours. I hope you and the FBI agent find some sort of closure from your case, some sort of resolution and peace, after all . . . all things must come to an end, must they not? Even those cases we think will never be solved. Good luck, my dear detective. Please remember to stop by to let me know how things progress.”

 

It wasn’t until Jill reached the street that she realised how strange D’s words were. They seemed to imply an understanding about the case that neither one of them had expressed, a sort of implicit knowledge that things were going incredibly slowly, that the case – in fact – involved the count in a very direct way. It was impossible that the count knew what the FBI agents were up to, impossible that he could suspect anything from their conversation, and yet somehow he seemed to know every thing . . .

 

The sudden burst of scents and smells from the street invaded her senses at once. She had always been fond of Chinese cooking, but the smell was so abrupt and strong compared to the soft incense that merely hovered in the background, and the bright lights and loud noises were distracting in comparison to the dark and quiet setting. There was a startling mixture of English and Chinese, even a few other languages were in the mix that she couldn’t quite catch, and all about her people bustled to and fro as they went about their business, oblivious to Jill and Leon as they stood alone and isolated outside of the count’s shop. Leon finally shuffled behind her, evidently sulking as she gazed around Chinatown looking for something . . . what she was looking for she didn’t know, but instinctively she knew that something was missing, something important . . .

 

“Do me a favour, Leon,” she said softly yet firmly.

 

“What?”

 

“Next time you see the count . . . be nice to him?”

 

“Why the hell should I?”

 

“I don’t know . . . just call it ‘women’s intuition’.”

 

All around her the music of Chinatown continued; the sounds of exotic foods frying and simmering, the chatter of the locals in their colourful languages, the sound of traditional carts moving alongside the modern cars . . . all of which merged and bled into on another, moving in a mystical dance that no other citizens of New York could hope to understand.

 

Each step led elegantly into the next, each move leading into another, and the dance continued ever and ever on . . . but soon she knew that Leon’s dance would finally reach its completion . . . he would dance with D no more.

 

The _Pasodoble_ had come to its end.

 


	2. Tarantella

** Tarantella **

 

“Please, _do_ look after it with kindness.”

 

D’s smile was certainly gentle, but far from sincere.

 

Chin had known the Chinese man for a while now, long enough to know the subtle differences in the man’s expressions, and in all that time he couldn’t rightfully remember any times in which the man had _sincerely_ given a smile to another person. There had been one or two times he had come close, but – in actuality – the only times he ever truly smiled were when he came into contact with sweets or animals . . .

 

It wasn’t as if he were impolite, but just that he always seemed to be . . . holding back.  He couldn’t remember him ever smiling to Wu-Fei, or at least without a hint of contempt seeping through, or even smiling to Chin without a feeling of pity creeping into his facial expression . . . the only times he showed actual humour were when he was intentional _annoying_ Wu-Fei through passive-aggressive means. It was as if he didn’t really belong. It was like he didn’t really feel anything for anyone. It was strange that someone so compassionate could be so emotionally distant.

 

He always seemed to be _acting_ . . . _faking_ feelings . . . _pretending_ to be happy and content, when in actual fact his eyes never ceased to hold a glassy polish, always hiding some depths of pain that made Chin feel reserved and distant from the count. He liked the man, but he just felt a little unnerved. D’s eyes – right now – were half-lidded and hooded, and his gaze was hard.

 

“I must ask you to remember the terms of contract and to abide by those terms,” D said in a smooth and legato voice. “The shop cannot be held responsible for any damages that may occur should you break those terms.”

 

“I understand, Count,” the young man replied. “It’ll be fine!”

 

“Very well, then please enjoy your new pet.”

 

The man in question smiled at the count and gave him a casual salute, before bouncing out of the shop in a rather jolly manner. His shredded jeans and tattered shirt made Chin feel a kind of despair for the modern generation, because it seemed with each and every year people cared less and less about their appearances, and this boy was no exception. He dreaded to think how the poor tarantula felt being rattled about in its cage as the boy practically ran. He couldn’t be in that much of a rush; could he?

 

Chin sighed and sipped from his cup of tea.

 

He was starting to feel old. It was getting so hard to communicate with Wu-Fei lately, and he could never work out how the younger man felt or thought . . . he was like D in so many respects, both hiding themselves and acting a role given to them by some unseen force, but they acted like polar opposites. Chin sometimes wondered if he could work out one if he would manage to work out the other. He didn’t understand the youngsters who came in and out the shop, he didn’t understand his own boss, and sometimes he didn’t even understand his own place in this world. The count drifted through life without any cares, Wu-Fei moving as if he understood everything whilst understanding nothing, and Chin . . .

 

“S-so you sold that man a tarantula, Count D?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I suppose that I did.”

 

Count D drifted by rather slowly and positioned himself by a magnificent birdcage. His violet-coloured cheongsam rustled slightly as he moved, the little sounds echoed about the air softly like feathers floating, something tangible and yet fragile, and as Chin watched him he caught subtle details of the Chinese clothing that were almost missed. There were detailed patterns of thread interweaving on the hem, and the pattern of the exotic birds seemed to match the living birds on display.

 

Chin wasn’t sure what caught his eye more in that moment . . . the caged bird or the count. They were both so beautiful, so colourful, and yet he felt a mixture of fear and respect for both of them. He couldn’t help but note the hard, yet warm, look in D’s eyes as he looked at the animal trapped behind golden bars, almost a mournful look as his manicured nails traced the patterns of the cage. It was a beautiful cage, but it was still a cage, and perhaps the count sensed that. It was possible he empathised for the creature, possible he felt its pain, but as his hands touched the bars his eyes held no sign of any real emotion. He seemed distant . . . detached . . .

 

The older man sipped his tea, questioning why Wu-Fei would send him to spend the entire day at Count D’s. It was evident that were the count up to anything illegal he was covering his tracks far too well, and if bugging the shop could wield no results that nothing would. They couldn’t exactly get rid of him either, not with his close connections and relationships with important figures, _including_ that of Wu-Fei’s father. Still, Chin had to admit the tea was very nice.

 

“Did you know that the tarantula sheds its skin at least once in its lifetime?”

 

Chin jumped a little. He hadn’t expected such a question to come out of nowhere, but – as he looked up – he saw the count staring down at him with a rather warm, yet penetrating gaze. It was awfully intimidating. It would have been an accusatory stare had it not been for the lips pulled into a smile, his posture undemanding as he rested both hands upon the birdcage.

 

“Oh, yes . . . it’s quite a fascinating process to watch.”

 

“Indeed,” D said calmly. “I wonder if you know though that upon reaching adulthood that it is only the female who moults upon a regular basis? She will shed her skin again and again, but the male will almost certainly die once he moults.”

 

“Yes, I’ve heard that male tarantulas don’t make very popular pets for that reason. They have much shorter life-spans, don’t they?”

 

“They do. Some female tarantulas can live up to fifty or so years, but the males . . . in their infancy they are reborn over and over, but once they reach adulthood they can not change who they are without losing _all_ that they are.” D sighed and traced a nail over the cage’s door. “It reminds me a little of humanity, for when we are children we are allowed to make mistakes over and over, often with very little serious repercussions, but as adults . . .”

 

Chin flinched a little and thought back to his own childhood. He could remember all the little mistakes he made in school, at home, and in training for the workplace, but every mistake had been corrected with very little chastisement. He would come out each and every time having learned from it and growing from it, but now he was an adult his mistakes were more permanent. He regretted every day having not found love, having not married, having not had children . . . but he couldn’t change it, and he couldn’t just start again like the mistakes of his childhood. What was done was done, and it could never be undone. It was a little like dying in that respect.

 

“That boy is young and reckless,” D continued with a hint of sorrow, “so alike so many of his age and kind, but there will come a time when he will face an ultimatum, where he will have to make a choice that will change his entire life . . . at that point he will become an adult. He will no longer be able to be reborn. He will either have to live with his mistake or die from it . . . which do you think it shall be?”

 

“He doesn’t have to make a mistake at all, does he?” Chin asked, hopefully. “If he does make a mistake, it doesn’t have to be that bad . . . adults can learn from their mistakes, too.”

 

“Oh? I have yet to see Wu-Fei correct any of his errors.”

 

“Perhaps, but you gave that boy a tarantula because you saw parallels, didn’t you? I can understand that, but I think you might have made a mistake, Count D. The tarantula doesn’t die because it makes a mistake, it dies because it tries to be something it’s not by _forcing_ itself to be reborn. If that boy stays true to himself then I think he can go through adulthood safely. Don’t you?”

 

“Perhaps . . .”

 

Chin made to reply, but something stopped him . . .

 

He could suddenly make out the sounds of shouting from outside the shop doors. It sounded at first like a man was having a dispute with one of the shop-owners in the mall complex, but after a while Chin was certain that this wasn’t the case. The man was railing against _something_ , but the neighbouring shop-owner was trying to placate him . . . the key word, of course, being ‘trying’.

 

Shinjuku often took the concept of multiculturalism to levels unseen in his hometown. It was a melting pot of all nationalities and races, and as such Chinatown often found a fair share of tourists who often spoke neither Japanese nor Chinese, but – whilst that made for good business and turnover – it also led to communicational difficulties rarely faced in the rest of Japan. It was practically a requirement that any business have at least one employee proficient in at least two languages, and some of the bars and restaurants Chin had frequented even had menus in languages as rare and obscure as Tagalog. The shopkeeper outside seemed to be desperately trying to communicate in Chinese, whereas the man was yelling back in English . . .

 

Chin was going to intervene and go outside to translate, but before he had time to stand the doors to the shop burst open, revealing a young man who stormed inside in an absolute rage. He stopped stock-still in the centre of the shop. Chin barely had time to look at him before the neighbouring shopkeeper appeared apologetically in the doorway, but – against all logic – D merely nodded sheepishly that everything was okay, causing the other man to close the door . . . leaving them to be trapped on the shop-floor with the raging man.

 

The man _certainly_ wasn’t local. He had the blondest hair that Chin had ever seen, pulled back into a ponytail that didn’t quite belong on a man that looked to be reaching his thirties, and his eyes were a piercing shade of blue. He seemed to be quite a handsome man; one with very sharp features, but his sense of dress left a lot to be desired. His trousers were stained and ripped, his t-shirt overly casual, and his jacket was an entirely separate colour to both the blue jeans and black shirt, so that nothing he wore seemed to match. He was also carrying a very old-fashioned suitcase and he wore a huge rucksack-style bag over his left arm.

 

Chin had never seen him before, but Wu-Fei would certainly want to know if this man were an angry customer with a legitimate complaint . . . he would have to pay attention to what was happening, but – at the same time – he felt rather threatened and intimidated by the powerful and violent aura the man exuded. Just who _was_ he? Was he a friend of the count’s?

 

“You . . .”

 

The man was visibly shaking at this point. His hands were clenched so tight around the bag and suitcase that his knuckles were turning white, his lips were pursed into a bloodless line, and his body seemed barely able to stand. It was rather frightening to see, and – what was worse – when Chin turned to look at Count D he could see the count visibly sweating . . . he clenched his trembling hands in front of his cheongsam ad stared at the blond man with wide eyes . . . he looked horrified.

 

“You _bastard_!”

 

“Detective, I –”

 

“Save it! I’m not listening to any of your bullshit excuses!”

 

The man raised his hand at this and pointed an accusing finger at D, the suitcase still in hand as it waved to and fro with the sudden motion. He stepped closer so that he was now standing beside Chin who sat on the sofa, but he was completely and utterly oblivious to the smaller man’s presence. He was so engrossed in his own anger that he only had eyes for D. He was blind to everything else.

 

“Oh, and it’s not freaking ‘Mister Detective’ anymore! You think a man can travel the world for two years and still keep his job? Its just ‘Leon’! _Leon_! Or maybe ‘I’m-So-Sorry-Please-Forgive-Me-Leon’ to _you_!”

 

Leon. So that was the man’s name?

 

It seemed that they – at the very least – knew one another, and rather well if Chin were to judge by the man’s – _Leon’s_ – rather casual and angry tone then they surely knew each other well . . . but they didn’t seem very happy to see one another at all. It was admirable that the count hadn’t backed away or called for help, and even more so that he stood his ground. Chin was genuinely scared for him.

 

Count D had raised a shaky hand to touch upon his lip. He seemed to be trying to hide his expression, but his twitching and nervous smile could still be seen from behind those trembling fingers. The sweat on his forehead seemed to bead, and – now that his wide-eyed terror had subsided – he had closed his eyes as if he could not abide to look at the man before him. It seemed like the count wanted to _run_ , but if what Leon had said was true then he had perhaps _been_ running for the last two years. Did they really have such a horrible argument that the count couldn’t face this man? Did Leon care that much about him he would hunt him down when the count obviously didn’t want to see him? They certainly seemed to have a dysfunctional relationship.

 

“Leon,” D said with a certain degree of nervousness, “I believe this is a discussion best left until later, perhaps we could –”

 

“No! I’m not waiting a damned second! The _last_ time I had a bunch of questions for you I found myself waking up in hospital with you _halfway across the globe_! What? I thought you supposedly cared about Chris, I thought you liked Jill, but I guess not, huh? What am I then? I’m just _less_ than human to you, huh, and considering what you think about humans . . .”

 

“Leon, that is a very unfair assumption!”

 

“Is it? You could have taken me with you . . . well, it’s no big deal, right? You’re so desperate to get away from me that no matter _where_ I follow you it always seems you’ve jumped ship and fled somewhere else. I was _so close_ in Germany, and even closer in Italy! Do you hate me that much?”

 

The count lowered his hand slightly and actually looked mildly hurt; his lips were parted by the briefest of millimetres, his eyes half-lidded in distress, and after a few seconds he actually looked downwards with a hard and angry gaze. He seemed cold all of a sudden, almost as if he were addressing Wu-Fei . . . it was the exact same emotional indifference he treated Wu-Fei with, except there was a genuine spark of anger behind those eyes, a spark of true emotion.

 

It seemed that Leon didn’t notice the change in D’s countenance, or perhaps he just didn’t care, but it was strange to Chin how D could allow himself to be hurt by another person or even angered by a person . . . he so rarely let other people influence his feelings. He certainly never changed his emotions so easily. Count D had once confided in him that he had used to be terribly cold and unfeeling, but over time he had grown to mature and adapt, and Chin had always assumed that the Count had grown immediately into the person he was today. The person Leon brought out was _not_ the emotionless Count D described in the past, nor the indifferent D of today, it was something else entirely. Chin couldn’t understand it.

 

“How _dare_ you, Leon?” D said, his voice icy and yet full of emotion. “Do you really think I would cry over any human? Even when Chris left – even when my heart broke – I did not shed any outward tear . . . I cried for _you_. I cried for you, Leon.”

 

“I know you did,” Leon said with an oddly calm and broken tone. “I never did understand why. It wasn’t until I looked into this case that I kind of got it . . . you’re such a stupid son of a bitch, but – even if I proved your father right – you still learned a little from us, didn’t you? I might not have learned much, but you did.” Leon smiled gently before suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be angry. “That’s why I don’t get it! If you cared . . . why did you leave?”

 

Chin felt as if he was intruding.

 

He gently tried to pull himself to his feet and sneak away, but before he had even put a hand on the arm of the chair Leon had brought the suitcase high into the air and then smashed it down hard against the table. The sound of china smashing was deafening, and Chin flinched visibly as broken pieces of objects scattered around him, but the blond man didn’t care about the damage he had done. He ignored the growls of the goat to his left, the squawking of the bird in the cage . . . he didn’t care about anything. He didn’t even care about the damage.  

 

“You forgot something,” Leon snapped.

 

“I certainly haven’t forgotten your American manners.”

 

“Just open the freaking case, D!”

 

The count let out a huff of indignation and his cheeks actually puffed out just slightly, almost like a small child. He walked with great dignity and elegance over to the case, his head high and his eyes half-cast as if the sight was truly beneath him, as if the case didn’t deserve his gaze. Chin didn’t know if D was opening the case because he wanted to, or if he was just intimidated by Leon, or if he was just humouring Leon, but – regardless – the count opened it nonetheless.

 

Chin couldn’t see what was inside as D knelt opposite him across the table, the case pulled around so that it faced D and opened away from Chin and Leon. The count seemed familiar with the case, knowing exactly how it opened and doing so with little trouble, but – once it opened – his eyes and expression _changed_. It was as if he had been dealt a physical blow. The pain that entered his eyes caused his eyebrows to knit, his smile to fall, and – as he closed the case – he seemed to be deeply pained, and the expression was much alike the pleading one he sometimes wore when deprived of sweets or baked goods. Chin desperately wanted to see inside, but when the locks snapped closed he knew that he wouldn’t.

 

“It’s empty,” D said sadly.

 

“Yeah,” Leon said noncommittally, “I kept leaving that freaking case behind everywhere I went, figured that with the contents as important as they were that I ought to keep them where I’d remember them. Hey, never forgot my clothes and spare cash yet! If you just give me a sec here I’ll get them out for you; you’ve waited _this_ long, you can stop looking like I drowned T-chan or something.”

 

Leon dropped his bag to the ground and opened it quickly. He was kneeling beside D who was now leaning into the blond’s space ever so slightly as if trying to look inside the bag, but – at the same time – trying to hide the fact that he _was_ curious about what was inside the rucksack. They seemed so natural together; almost as if either the fighting were normal or that they cared enough to be quick to forgive, as if sitting awkwardly by one another in silence were almost normal.

 

“They’re here somewhere. Don’t know why I bothered though,” Leon said, pulling out dirty clothes and torn magazines, “I mean what souvenirs did _you_ ever send me? Hell, you could have even rung from a payphone, but no . . . not _you_.”

 

“I seriously doubt Howell headed his investigation on his own, De-,” D paused and then frowned, “ _Leon_. I don’t think calling or writing would be a good idea when such methods of communication can be traced.” He huffed and looked away angrily. “It wasn’t as if I would be able to get a word in edgewise regardless, is it? If I rang you it would be a waste of the long-distance charges.”

 

“You’re lucky Japan has such strict gun-control! God, I want to pistol-whip you so hard right now! You don’t care about – _ha_! I found them!”

 

It was almost frenzied the interaction between them.

 

They hadn’t stopped once yet to calmly talk to one another, to state their feelings or to try and talk things through, instead it was nothing but poisoned jibes on D’s end and crazed yelling and hand waving on the American’s part. He seemed to take offence to D, acting as if the only way he could deal with the little biting remarks were to furiously lash out, moving constantly verbally and physically, like a man trapped in a fever dream or lost in insanity.

 

The blond man pulled out two square items wrapped delicately in printed-paper, both sheets decorated with falling sakura blossoms and various Kanji that represented the name of the shop that wrapped the gifts. On top was a foil bag that seemed to contain some sort of candy or chocolate, which was the first thing a blushing Leon handed to the count. The way he practically shoved it into his chest made it seem as if it was more of a burden or duty than a gift, but the count accepted it with a twitching eyebrow of frustration, before his eyes lit up upon reading the label . . . suddenly forgetting the two wrapped gifts on the American’s lap, as he sat legs crossed on the floor beside the wide-eyed man.

 

“Thought you’d be craving American chocolate by now,” Leon said with a slight smile, watching as D reverently put the bag upon the table. “So got you some Hershey’s Kisses, but they may be a bit melted . . . chocolate doesn’t last that long, so I’ve been topping up at the international markets in each country. I even found a beer here that looks like its logo was designed off the animals from your shop!”

 

“You came here with an empty suitcase and only brought _one_ bag of chocolates . . .”

 

“Oh, don’t you start! I mean it! Damned bastard.” Leon shoved the two wrapped presented at D’s chest, causing the other man to glare at him. “Open them, alright? I would say I’m not leaving until you do, but I’m never ever leaving this shop again. Hell, I’m not even letting _you_ leave this shop until the food runs out or something! I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, and considering _your_ sugar intake . . .”

 

“How dare you!”

 

Count D snatched the two presents and tore them open with his sharp nails. He was glaring at Leon the entire time, who – in turn – was glaring back, almost as if the two were challenging one another to make the first move. They were practically glaring daggers at one another, each one leaning into the other’s personal space so that if they had leaned in any more it may have easily been misinterpreted. It wasn’t until D looked down at the two items that the tension broke.

 

There were two framed pictures. The first looked like a child had drawn it in crayon, and it seemed to be of Count D and Leon, who – for some reason – was waving a gun and seemed to be possessed, and in between the two was a small girl, a small boy and a rather angry boy with horns. The flowers were a pretty touch, and it brought out a sentimental side to Chin who suddenly felt an urge to know who the child was and who he belonged to. The sight of that picture in particular caused D’s eyes to well up with soft and unshed tears. The other picture caused him to smile warmly, too. It was a photograph of D in a chair with a handsome man and beautiful woman.

 

The Count appeared to blush a little and stood up with both pictures. He looked around as if searching for a place to put them, and then settled for placing the photograph of himself in a prominent place so that it was the first thing seen when entering the shop. The framed drawing he pulled to his chest and held there for a moment with a smile, before gently placing it upon a table with a reverent gesture, almost as if there could be no place sacred enough for it to stand.

 

Leon stood up and scratched his head in a rather childish way, before walking over to the count and looking down at the picture over his shoulder. The two seemed content to silently look at the drawing without words or actions, simply enjoying each other’s company and happy to simply be, and it seemed so natural too. They seemed the sort of people to sit silently without anything to talk about, because to talk would mean to argue, but arguing was merely an expression of something deeper, something inexpressible that could only be pulled forth with words of anger . . . they could connect on a deep enough level to be silent, but were too shallow to put anything to words. It was such a contradiction.

 

Eventually Leon broke the silence by folding his arms and leaning back against the table he stood by, gazing with a solid glare at the floor. Chin smiled at the sight, wondering how many frown-lines the blond would have once he reached Chin’s age, and wondering if he had finally calmed down. It was possible the song-and-dance between the two men was merely because they were both frustrated and had no real way to vent that frustration, both too immature to sit down and talk. It was rather adorable.

 

“You left the picture of your grandfather in the shop,” Leon said with an unusual patience. “I know how much the old guy meant to you, and the damned feds would only use it as evidence or to get closer to you . . . figured you might want it back.”

 

“Thank you, Leon. I honestly thought that I would never see this photograph again. I never thought I would see Chris’ drawing either . . . he was such an interesting child, and the only human child I think I could trust in my shop without being handcuffed or perhaps knocked unconscious. Is he doing well?”

 

“You told me once that human beings are the only beings capable of loving a child like their own, even if there’s no blood relation,” Leon replied with a tense tone. “I think we must be rubbing off on you. You love Chris, admit it.”

 

“I will admit that I do not _hate_ him.”

 

Leon growled deep in his throat and turned to D with a furious expression that made Chin shiver. He rounded on the count, leaning into his personal space with hands raised into clenched fists, his mouth – when he spoke – actually spat little flecks of spit towards the other man, and his voice would be high and full of venom. Count D – on the other hand – would merely lean away and look into a far corner of the room, hands clasped in front of him, whilst he appeared completely indifferent with a small smile that seemed to say he _enjoyed_ Leon’s anger.

 

“That kid loves you more than anything and you _still_ won’t admit to loving him? You make me sick sometimes! If your granddad can love that freaky blond baby that your dad gave birth to, then you think you’d be able to at least admit to loving Chris! Humans are animals, too! What the hell happened that night anyway? Do your race get reborn into humans or something? Do you get to _choose_ what you’ll be reborn as? What was that whole thing about inheriting memory, too? If your pops remembers being a mad scientist then we might as well kiss our asses goodbye now!”

 

“To my knowledge my father is being raised as a unique human being by my grandfather,” D said coldly, folding his arms and glaring back at the former detective. “I do not know what he may or may not remember. If they decide to contact me then I will be sure to ask, because I’m sure a toddler will be happy to answer any questions his murderer may have!”

 

“I _knew_ it! I _knew_ that you would resent me for that!”

 

“I do not resent you for it, but that _was_ my father . . . regardless of the fact he may have been extreme in his beliefs, rather embarrassing and immature, and that he was so involved with an idiotic agent that he caused that agent to _stalk_ him for the next twenty to thirty years! If you must know the only person I resent is myself! I should have learned from his mistake with Agent Howell!”

 

“You didn’t even _know_ about Howell!”

 

“Oh? Well what _you_ know could fill a thimble!”

 

Chin nervously made to stand up to leave, but no sooner did he move did both men turn and glare at him with rather fiery and dangerous expressions, and – in unison – they yelled as one being:

 

“Sit down!”

 

He nervously fell backwards and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, wondering why the two men were suddenly bickering about which one of them made Chin uncomfortable and why the old man was even there to begin with. It went back and forth between demands that he go versus demands that he stay, all whilst Chin began to question his own English skills . . . murder, rebirth, agents, and humanity were not topics of conversation that popped up between old friends, surely?

 

The two men didn’t even seem to know what they were arguing about. They were times when they would wait for the other man to speak, but for most of the time they seemed to merely be shouting _over_ one another. It was amazing to see D so heated, even more so to see someone actually treat the count in such an aggressive manner, and Chin was half certain that things may just turn physical at any moment. He wasn’t sure why he was being told to sit, but he was fairly certain that Leon just wanted to make a scene and D thought that with another guest Leon would be less likely to do such a thing, but there _was_ a scene, and Chin wasn’t comfortable with it at all.

 

“I _couldn’t_ have taken you with me, Leon,” D spat, his expression an eerie look of desperation and fear. “Even if you were ready, even if it were permissible, you would only have hated me for having not given you a choice. Would you truly have forgiven me if you could not have said goodbye to Chris or Jill? Would you have been happy to have endured so much only to awaken in a strange land?”

 

“Well, we’ll never know, will we? It’s not as if you gave me a choice!”

 

“And if I were to give you a choice now?”

 

Leon went silent.

 

He shoved his hands into his pockets and scratched his leg with his foot, looking at D curiously for a long moment that didn’t seem to wish to end. It felt awkward and uncomfortable. It was clear that Leon was thinking things through, and his face fell into an odd mixture of serenity and frustration, his eyes half-narrowed and his lips pursed as he watched the count curiously.

 

Count D merely stood elegantly to one side, his right hand resting lightly upon a table as he smiled in a rather mysterious way. It seemed half-venomous, almost like a spider luring a fly into its web, but at the same time there was a softness there that Chin had rarely – if ever – seen for any other human. It was as if he wanted to both hurt Leon and protect him, or perhaps as if _by_ hurting him that he _was_ protecting him, which would – if Chin thought about it – explain why the Chinese man had pushed him away to begin with. The room seemed to grow cold, the animals quiet, and Chin wondered why it was he suddenly felt drawn to D . . .

 

Leon suddenly huffed loudly and folded his arms, his expression rather petulant, and – for a brief second – Chin caught a glimmer of desire and pleasure course through the count’s eyes, his chest heaving just slightly as if in anticipation of a reply. His long fingers seemed to pull and tighten upon the tabletop, his smile grew just slightly, and it seemed as if he had won whatever argument was going on between them. Chin shuddered. He couldn’t help but feel something dangerous was happening.

 

“I don’t know what you are,” Leon said in a daze. “I don’t know what happened to your father after he died, or why you guys have to worry about procreating if you can be reborn as a human, or even _how_ you manage to procreate and why you all look the same . . . I don’t know why your grandfather lied to you . . . I don’t even know why I’m here. I know I shouldn’t trust a vampire like you, but –”

 

“What? _Vampire_? I am most certainly _not_ a vampire, Leon!”

 

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Leon slammed his hand down on the table and glared daggers at the count. “I’m not as stupid as you think, jackass! That little flying-rabbit your granddad dressed as for those two years, well I looked it up! That freaking animal doesn’t even exist, and when Nora just ‘vanished’ and a little bat showed up at your shop . . . looked suspiciously identical to your granddad to me!”

 

“My father changed his appearance too, as you so _politely_ pointed out, when he was reborn” D said sharply, “if appearances define us then I must surely be human, and _you_ must be a rather educated ape that learned to finally stop dragging his knuckles.”

 

“Oh, and when you were ill, after your sister just randomly left, that medicine you were drinking looked a lot like blood, which is weird as you’re usually a strict vegan,” Leon said, ignoring the blatant insult. “Now I think of it, that time when Chris tried to break the curse on your grandfather, he got those funny herbs to turn him to his natural form, right? Did you see his freaking tail? He’s either a vampire or a demon! No living creature has a tail like that!”

 

The count huffed in indignation and stormed across the room.

 

He barely managed a few steps before Leon reached out and took a firm hold of the count’s wrist, jerking him backwards and forcing him still. It was strange to see Count D simply stand there, especially when he could probably slice through skin with his nails and was known to fight back in any given argument, but he didn’t move at all. He simply glared at Leon who gave him a hard – yet heartfelt – stare, looking almost as if he were searching for his soul.

 

The blond man let go abruptly, pulling his hand back whilst keeping it open for Chin and the D to see. Count D merely rubbed his wrist and turned back to face the blond man with a stern gaze, tilting his head for a better view as he expressed his scepticism and curiosity at the man’s sudden behaviour. It was curious indeed. The two seemed to have no idea how to talk to one another without violence and shouting, and even when they seemed on the verge of politeness it was fraught with tension and underlying hostility, and yet – against all probability – they appeared to genuinely care for one another. Chin felt awkward around them. It was like waiting for something explosive and dangerous that he couldn’t quite comprehend, whether for good or for bad, it was beyond understanding.

 

Leon scratched his neck nervously and shifted a little from foot to foot, his hands itching to move – perhaps to strike – but pulled by his sides as he tried his hardest to maintain his sense of self-control. His face was knotted, his blue eyes focussed into narrow points at a random spot upon the floor, and – as he stared – he breathed out deeply and shoved his hands into his pockets, desperately trying to hide into himself, pretending as if none of this matter at all.

 

“I’m not going anywhere, D,” Leon said harshly.

 

Count D seemed taken aback for a brief moment. His eyes flickered and took on a wide appearance, before he lifted his long fingers to his lips and smiled devilishly behind his hand. His gaze seemed calculating, formulating, and it was oddly disconcerting . . . he stepped towards Leon and into his personal space, causing the other man to blush just slightly.

 

“Perhaps, _Leon_ ,” D said, gently resting his hand upon the other man’s upper arm, “I should be welcoming you on your return to our modest shop. If you are adamant on staying, however, you must earn your keep.”

 

“Damn you, D! You’re the one who owes me, not the other way around!”

 

“Hmm, is that so . . .”

 

The count stepped back, an eerie glow seemingly cast about him, and Leon couldn’t take his eyes from him, trapped into place by that one paralysing stare, ensnared by something he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t as if Leon would have gone anywhere anyway, not without D at least, but the count knew that and so the tables had been turned, because now it was the count with the power, and he was quite aware of it. He had Leon under his control, and he liked it that way, just so long as Leon kept true to himself and refused to quit struggling even whilst trapped in the net . . .

 

“Welcome to my web, Leon.”

 

The Count smiled warmly, a smile Chin had never seen before . . .

 

“And welcome to my store . . .”

 

                       


End file.
